


Draw Him In (Let Him Go)

by cathcer1984



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, No Dialogue, POV First Person, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcer1984/pseuds/cathcer1984
Summary: You can’t blame someone from leaving if you don’t give them a reason to stay.





	Draw Him In (Let Him Go)

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this prompt (a really bad fight, a break-up, then reunion sex), and had to get it as soon as I saw it! I’m not sure what happened to make this into the style it is but I’m quite proud of it. I’m really pleased how it’s turned out and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A big thank you to my amazing beta "C", she’s made this fic a thousand times better. And to "H" for SPAG-ing the hell out of this to make it make sense! Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> HP-Silencio fic

His eyes are narrowed and his jaw clenched; Harry is furious. His chest heaves and his nostrils flare with every breath.

The silence is deafening.

Nothing more needs to be said.

I had, in the space of a few seconds, ruined the best thing in my life. I pushed away the man I love, tore his character apart and broke him down.

It takes a few moments before Harry’s shoulders slump. The fight leaves his body between one breath and the next.

I don’t reach out to him, don’t draw him in.

I should have. But instead, I let him go.

***

The house is quiet. Too quiet, ever since Harry left. The snick of the lock as Harry shuts the door behind him lingers in the air.

The silence feels heavy, oppressive, without Harry there. It always was. It’s almost as if there’s a weight on my shoulders that Harry takes away when he is with me.

When the house is empty, my demons come back. I hear the echoes of my parents’ voices in my mind. The long, dark hallways mock me as I walk down them, the light from my wand keeping the shadows at bay. I hate this house.

I have hated this house my entire life. I’m not sure how I came to live here with Harry--he hates it too, but somehow we’ve made it work.

Sex in each and every room; scandalising the portraits of my ancestors and parents has helped a great deal. They don’t shout filth at us anymore. Most of the time they remain silent, aloof, and still like Muggle portraits.

Tipping Firewhisky down my throat doesn’t make the ache go away. It doesn’t bring back Harry. But it does make me forget, just momentarily, that I am alone and that it is my fault.

Harry left most of his things. A jumper is slung over the arm of the sofa, his travelling cloak still hangs on the hook, and his boots are still out by the fireplace. It’s almost as if he is coming back.

He isn’t.

***

Lying in our bed, I can’t help but look over at Harry’s empty side. The sheets are cold, his smell has faded from the cotton, and I can’t stand the sight. I turn over and glance at the picture on my bedside table. It was taken at a party; we’re smiling and kissing.

The picture mocks me. I’m even jealous of myself, stuck in an eternal loop of kissing and smiling at Harry. I’ll never have that again.

I place the picture face down. I don’t want to see.

***

It’s been a few days since Harry left. Maybe a week? I’m not sure, the time has gone by in a drunken haze. I thought about writing to him, asking for his forgiveness, but I haven’t. I’m too proud. Too proud to beg the man I love to come back, too proud to apologise, too proud to appear weak.

I tip my bottle of Firewhisky forward, a toast to my mother and father, two of the proudest people I ever knew. Funnily enough, they were brought crashing down to their knees by their pride.

I suppose I’m following in their footsteps at last.

I want to laugh at this but instead I sob. I go to see their portraits, to see if they are proud of me now.

They are.

The admiration on their faces makes me feel sick. I hate it. I collapse to my knees before them. The shadows curl around me, sucking the light from my mind. My weaknesses, my desperation fuels them. The darkness clutches at me.

I can hear the portraits laughing at me. Their faded colours intensify as I glare at them in horror. Their insults drag me down into the darkness of my mind. I cast a Lumos--my need for light is overwhelming but then I see their faces…

Pride is my downfall, just like it was theirs.

***

The door opens sometime in the night. I’m disgustingly sober and want nothing more than to swallow more Firewhisky. But I finished the last bottle a few hours ago. So all I have left are the horrible memories, a bitter taste in my mouth, and an ache in my chest.

Light flares up, making me squint against its brightness. I raise my hand to shield my eyes and see a figure in the doorway.

My heart is pounding in my chest and I can’t breathe. Stumbling to my feet, I want to speak, but bite my lip instead. Words have caused too much damage, and I don't trust them anymore.

Harry came home.

***

I apologise to Harry with my fingers. Tracing from wrist to knuckle, following the veins, dragging my thumb over the scars and linking our hands together so I can tug him into my arms.

I express my regret with my mouth. Trailing my lips over his jaw, sucking on his ear lobe, sliding down his neck. I pause, just for a moment, to breathe him in before I bring my lips to meet his. I kiss away the taste of despair. I lick at his mouth until his tongue is moving with mine. We kiss until I am gasping for air.

I ask forgiveness with my body. I move against Harry in the cold room, rocking into his hardness, holding him close. I kiss him. His mouth, his neck, his hands, where our fingers are still joined. I want him to know how much I need to atone for.

The way Harry draws me towards our bedroom, undresses me and takes me apart tells me that he already knows. He knows and he accepts my apology.

***

The sun is warm on my face when I wake up. There’s a pounding in my head and, as I glance at Harry’s side of the bed, I see it’s empty and I want to cry.

A soft clink and a hand running through my hair makes me glance up. There he is. Harry.

He has a cup of tea in his hands, the steam fogging his glasses. A matching cup is on my bedside table waiting for me. The picture has been set upright again.

The light streaming in through the windows, combined with Harry’s presence makes the demons flee from my mind and chases the shadows away.

Harry kisses my smile.


End file.
